his mirror. He could tell that Ian, the other heavy in the back of Mickey's Jag, was also dismanding his stool. Excellent. Ten past ten and all was well.
Still crouching, Tiny Dave reached into his inside pocket. From it he extracted a new quarter-inch chisel and removed the red plastic cover protecting the tip. He gripped the handle like a knife, careful not to catch anything with the unused, factory-sharp business end.
At eleven minutes past ten, the two guards plus the supervisor entered the foyer.
'Morning!' the supervisor shouted to the male receptionist. One of the guards pressed the lift button. Nothing happened. The supervisor stepped in and stabbed it repeatedly. 'Come on, come on,' he grumbled. 'Is this lift OK?' he yelled at the receptionist.
The lad shrugged. 'As far as I know. Could be someone holding it while they load stuff in. It happens.'
The supervisor muttered a curse under his breath.
Somewhere in the shaft above them a distant bell pinged and an arrow above the metal doors illuminated, showing that the lift was on its way down.
'About bloody time.'
'Bacon butty after this,' said one guard.
'Starvin',' agreed the other.
The supervisor tapped his foot impatiently.
Billy Naughton approached the suspicious car at a crouch. There was a driver in the front, he could see the silhouette, but no passengers. He moved towards the rear so he could check the registration on the plate. It was the right car. A Morris Oxford.
Another aircraft came in low over his head, the screech of jet engines swirling around him, and his walkie-talkie squawked. He ignored it. What was this one up to? he wondered as he sprinted round and yanked the driver's door open.
Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.
'Now?' asked Harry.
'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'
Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.
A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.
Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.
The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.
'Who the fuck are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.
'Who the fuck are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.
'Flying Squad.'
'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'
It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'
The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pass. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'
'Here? At the airport?'
'Perimeter road, it's a good place to try a motor out. Straight up.'
'Shit,' said Billy, letting him go and stepping back. His walkie-talkie crackled once more. This time he answered it.
Unaware as yet of the commotion at the reception desk, the guards stepped aside as the lift doors opened, intending to let the smart gentlemen within pass out.
The supervisor felt a thump on the side of his head and stumbled.
Still crouching, Tiny Dave reached into his inside pocket. From it he extracted a new quarter-inch chisel and removed the red plastic cover protecting the tip. He gripped the handle like a knife, careful not to catch anything with the unused, factory-sharp business end.
At eleven minutes past ten, the two guards plus the supervisor entered the foyer.
'Morning!' the supervisor shouted to the male receptionist. One of the guards pressed the lift button. Nothing happened. The supervisor stepped in and stabbed it repeatedly. 'Come on, come on,' he grumbled. 'Is this lift OK?' he yelled at the receptionist.
The lad shrugged. 'As far as I know. Could be someone holding it while they load stuff in. It happens.'
The supervisor muttered a curse under his breath.
Somewhere in the shaft above them a distant bell pinged and an arrow above the metal doors illuminated, showing that the lift was on its way down.
'About bloody time.'
'Bacon butty after this,' said one guard.
'Starvin',' agreed the other.
The supervisor tapped his foot impatiently.
Billy Naughton approached the suspicious car at a crouch. There was a driver in the front, he could see the silhouette, but no passengers. He moved towards the rear so he could check the registration on the plate. It was the right car. A Morris Oxford.
Another aircraft came in low over his head, the screech of jet engines swirling around him, and his walkie-talkie squawked. He ignored it. What was this one up to? he wondered as he sprinted round and yanked the driver's door open.
Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.
'Now?' asked Harry.
'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'
Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.
A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.
Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.
The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.
'Who the fuck are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.
'Who the fuck are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.
'Flying Squad.'
'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'
It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'
The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pass. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'
'Here? At the airport?'
'Perimeter road, it's a good place to try a motor out. Straight up.'
'Shit,' said Billy, letting him go and stepping back. His walkie-talkie crackled once more. This time he answered it.
Unaware as yet of the commotion at the reception desk, the guards stepped aside as the lift doors opened, intending to let the smart gentlemen within pass out.
The supervisor felt a thump on the side of his head and stumbled.
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